Love's Violence
“But above all things have constant mutual charity among yourselves;
for charity covers a multitude of sins.” - I Pet 4:8
Speaking of charity always involves great risk. Especially these days. Modernity run amuck has so bruised the word charity, or love, that its original meaning is barely recognizable. It must first be noted that the very term charity (caritas, in Latin; xaris, in Greek) is the love that God has for man, and him for God. So demarcated, its privileged status raises it far above the parodies given it by our sensate culture. In the Catholic economy the term has nothing to do with feeling, sentiment, subjective judgment, common friendship or bonhomie. It is as far from those as a candle flame is from the blazing inferno of the sun. Care should be shown in deploying the word love or charity. Both words have suffered defacement. Love has become synonymous with oleaginous feeling or the hegemony of the self. Charity has become attenuated into a thin philanthropy. Good Catholics must avoid this Scylla and Charybdis. Only the truth of Christ will assist us to sail safely through these imposing hindrances.
All of this helps us understand the enigmatic verse of St. Peter, “charity covers a multitude of sins.” Of course, he was merely echoing the words he had heard from the lips of Christ defending the Magdalene, “Wherefore I say unto thee, her sins which are many, are forgiven; for she loved much.” (Lk 7:47). Whom was the Magdalene loving? Clearly, Christ Who is God. Here we peer into the heart of love – which is the love of God, and the love of others out of love for Him. The greatly misused text of St. Augustine comes into proper focus, “Love God, and do what you will.” When we love God and burn to do His will, then we choose our every act and thought to please him. So, I Cor 10:31, “Whether therefore ye eat or drink, or whatsoever ye do, do all to the glory of God.” These revealed texts caused St. Thomas to culminate his sublime teachings on love (S.T,. I, Q 20 – 27), “Charity is the form of all the virtues.” In his rather clinical vernacular, he is teaching a truth of explosive dimensions. Every virtue, cardinal and moral, all have as their end the love of God. Reflecting St. Thomas, St. John of the Cross, in his last mystical work, The Living Flame of Love, memorably writes, “In the twilight of our lives, we shall be judged on love.” Wasting no time, twentieth century revisionists twisted this elevated text into mawkish drivel. Their shallowness could never grasp the grave allusions to the Last Judgment when Christ in glory thunders, “Verily, I say unto you, inasmuch as ye did it to one of the least of these, ye have done it unto me.” (Mt 25:40). Of course, the most perfect demonstration of love is Christ hanging upon the Cross. In fact, it becomes the paradigm and model of all love. This is the gift of oblation where one ceases to pause for comfort, self-interest, ease or convenience. Its only joy is the joy of the other. Indeed, charity "covers a multitude of sins.”
Henri Daniel Rops calls this the “Revolution of the Cross.”. The estimable church historian traces the human race’s quest for God in religion and notes the conspicuous absence of love. These ancient religions certainly displayed fear of the gods, propitiation to the gods, punishment for disbelief in the gods, exquisite temples for their gods. But never a mention of love. Though Judaism was the preparation for Christianity, it still failed to manifest the primacy of love. Daniel-Rops elucidates, “While Judaism…on several major points gave the religious hearts- searchings of the world answers which were perfectly correct ones, (it) could not assume the decisive role which Christianity was to have, because its abstract monotheism alienated too many mystically inclined souls and because its narrow legalism completely failed to possess the influential force of the doctrine of love”
To the surprise of many, Aristotle and the Greek masters never speak of love. In the Nicomachean Ethics Aristotle praises the virtue of ‘magnificence”, the creation of grand physical works for the polis, but even that is done for purposes of self-aggrandizement. One would imagine the Stagirite’s profound teaching on friendship (canonical texts for Aquinas) might finally utter the name of love. But it does not. Appreciating these gaping lacunae, St. Augustine, in his City of God, admits that scars mar his beloved Roman Empire. He confesses that even its apparent virtues are contaminated by self-love, and damningly calls them ‘glorious vices’. Against this barren civilizational backdrop, the earth shook at the sound of Our Lord’s doctrine on the primacy of love. It was like springtime after a long and bitter winter. No man had heard or seen such a thing. It was truly a Revolution, with the vast ancient Roman Imperium as its first conquest. Even the brief attempt of Julian the Apostate in the mid fourth century to revive the cult of the pagan gods comes to naught. As if in final surrender, the dying emperor crying out at the 363 AD Battle of Marianga against the Persians, “You have won, O Galilean!”
We are finally left with St. Peter’s command, “have mutual charity among yourselves.” The injunction demands heroism. Thus, Richard of St. Victor in the twelfth century writes his challenging work, On the Four Degrees of the Violence of Love. Seems counterintuitive, doesn’t it? Violence in the same breath as love. But it dramatically captures the essence of charity. The divine virtue does violence to our self-love, vanity and pride. How deeply the precept of charity plunges its sharp dagger. Think of Bernini’s spectacular Ecstasy of St. Teresa in the Cornaro Chapel of Santa Maria della Vittoria in Rome. It is considered one of the cultural masterpieces of the High Roman Baroque. The eye is drawn to two details. First, the saint’s posture of total surrender to Christ. Her mouth ajar reminds the observer of St. Augustine’s piercing lines in the Confessions:
Thou didst call and cry aloud and didst force open my deafness. Thou dost gleam and shine, and didst chase away my blindness. Thou didst breathe fragrant odors and I drew in my breath; and now I pant for Thee. I tasted, and now I hunger and thirst. Thou didst touch me, and I burned for Thy peace.
Then there is the arrow. This strange detail unveils the mystery. An angel hovers above the Saint and is prepared to thrust an arrow into her St Teresa’s heart. Alas, the violence of love: indescribably sweet while simultaneously agonizing. Thus, the angel discharges this task with a smile. No little amount of pain is entailed in laying aside grudges and emotional wounds, slights and injustices, unfair injury and insult, ruffled feelings and shattered expectations. To conquer these cherished imperfections, clutched so tightly to our breast, is a violence: a pain beyond any physical suffering.
This crucial pursuit of the love of God has been undermined in the Church for the past half-century. Longing for perfection has given way to something called ‘spirituality.’ Clearly the term has possessed a legitimate meaning in the history of the Church, an exploration of the varied ways that saints have adopted in the attainment of that precious goal of sanctification, viz., Dominican spirituality, Franciscan spirituality, Benedictine spirituality. Each one of these holding to the doctrinal lineaments of sanctification, but each with a slightly different emphasis, resulting in a lovely new key of interior orchestration. Their reliability stamped by Catholic tradition and the Church’s stamp of approval. But this once venerable theological term has borne the same blows as charity and love. The new ‘spirituality’ is merely a sterile exploration into the wonders of the Inner Me – a witch’s brew of Freudian cul de sacs and Buddhistic nihilism topped with a veneer of occasional Christian wording. It leads not to the Cross but to the raising of the Imperial Self.
This Revolution of the Cross must pass through each of our souls. But violence will come. If it doesn’t, we languish in the land of the Unconquered. A land far from Christ.
October 2020
[ Image Credit: Juan Rodríguez Juárez (1675-1728), “The Virgin of Carmel With St. Teresa of Avila and St. John of the Cross” (photo: Public Domain) ]
